


In From The Storm

by Morgan (duckwhatduck)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Convent Husbands, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckwhatduck/pseuds/Morgan





	In From The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



In the convent garden, the branches of the fruit trees tossed and creaked in the shrieking wind. The rain lashed against the walls, slashing down in streaks that glinted sharply in the light of the gardener's lanterns. He looked up at a loud cracking noise as the wind brought down a branch of one of the apple trees. He brought his lantern up and squinted through the lashing rain, his face screwed up against the stinging darts. The dark leaves of the fallen branch waved in the wind, dim shadows in the howling night. When it was light, and the wind had died down, that would be a job to clear. But there was nothing to be done about it now, so he just clasped his coat tighter around him as he went on, leaning into the wind and rain. The straw mats on the melon beds were heavy enough to stay put by themselves in normal weather, but in this gale they were flapping wildly, fluttering up like flags - one tore loose entirely and blew towards him. The gardener caught it awkwardly with one arm, stooping to set his lantern down in the grass as he wrestled the mat down. He made his way down the beds, heaving stones into place to weight down the mats. The lantern, standing in the grass, barely cut through the rain and the night, and he hadn't a free hand to carry it, so he worked slow and deliberately, groping in the dimness.

The rain soaked his white hair dripped in his eyes; the wind cut through his coat. He retrieved the lantern with fingers slick with rain and stiff with cold. He brushed wet hair out of his face and clutched his coat around him, picking his way carefully through the garden. The wind moaned around the buildings, and overhead, tree branches swung wildly in the teeth of the gale. Downed sticks littered the wet grass, leaves whipped from branches tossed through the air like angry butterflies. He skirted around the downed apple limb, lifting the lantern to look up into the tree as he passed, keeping his distance - it was an old tree, creaking painfully in the wind, and this might not be the only bough to fall tonight.

His numb fingers fumbled with the door to the hut, and it seemed like a long time before the door swung open. With a sigh he stumbled forward into the firelit warmth, a swirl of water and damp leaves following him in before the wind caught the door in its grasp and slammed it abruptly shut behind him.

Fauchelevent pushed himself to his feet as Valjean set the lantern heavily on the table. "Brother?"  
"The melons are covered; the old apple tree has lost a branch, one at least - I knew I should have dealt with it before the autumn set in."  
"In this weather, I'm not surprised - as long as it's safe when the children are out."  
"It will be." Valjean closed his eyes and scrubbed the back of his hand over his face, brushing dripping hair off his forehead.  
He shivered, and Fauchelevent took a step forward. "You look done in." Valjean made no answer, fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his coat, and Fauchelevent closed the distance between them and batted his hands away, taking over the task for himself.

Valjean allowed Fauchelevent to continue with only a token mumble of complaint, which Fauchelevent ignored entirely, drowning it out with muttered imprecations about how Valjean would catch his death, and why had he not taken his gloves - to which Valjean murmured placatingly that they would have been soaked through and useless, which excuse was rebuffed with an impatient grunt.

The buttons undone, Valjean shrugged the coat off his shoulders and draped it across the back of the chair nearest the fire. He paused there for a moment, hands on the chair back, leaning into the heat. The flickering firelight sent shadows dancing across the planes of his face. Fauchelevent twitched the woollen blanket off the bed and made to drape it over his shoulders, but Valjean held up a hand to stop him. "I'll drip on it."

He straightened, tugging his shirt - mostly dry, with a long damp patch down the back where rain had trickled down his neck - over his head and scrubbing water out of his hair with it. He dropped it on the floor and accepted the blanket. Fauchelevent turned back to the table, filling a cup from the open bottle of wine on the table. He held it out to Valjean, who was staring vaguely into the fire, clutching at the corners of the blanket. Valjean blinked at him for a second before letting go of a blanket corner to take the cup. He stared down into it, took a sip, and sneezed.

Fauchelevent clucked his tongue and gave Valjean a meaningful look. Valjean raised an eyebrow and drained the cup, setting it down on the table. "I'm fine. Just wet."

"And tired."

Valjean sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "...true." The wind and the rain had whipped up unexpectedly at the end of what had already been a long day, and he had had little desire to go back out in it, but by the time they had finished dinner, the wail of the wind around the house had made it obvious that something would have to be done; and Valjean would be damned before he'd send the older man out in this weather.

Fauchelevent sat beside him on the bed, and took Valjean's cold hands in his own, rubbing them as he talked. Valjean sneezed again, and sighed. He laid his head on Fauchelevent's shoulder, then sat up sharply again, as if he had surprised himself by his own action.  
Fauchelevent chuckled, and Valjean frowned.  
"I think perhaps I am not altogether myself at the moment, but am I truly that amusing?"  
Fauchelevent diplomatically ignored the question, and was not surprised when shortly afterwards Valjean began listing forward again. He let him lean against his shoulder for a moment, bringing a hand up to brush through his damp hair, and Valjean mumbled something sleepily into Fauchelevent's shirt.  
"I am not your pillow," Fauchelevent grumbled, the smile on his face belying his tone. "Take the rest of your wet things off, and there's a perfectly good bed."

Valjean complied, sliding out of his damp trousers and dropping down onto the bed. Outside the wind wailed, whistling around the little building. The rain pattered on the roof, the trees sighed. Valjean curled into the blanket, leaning into the hand Fauchelevent laid on his shoulder as he fell asleep.

Outside, the storm raged; but here, though the wind might hammer outside, the rain crash down in sheets, here was an island of warmth, of stillness, of quiet, of firelight and comfort and safety, and sheltered from the storm, the two men slept deep.


End file.
